i wish, i wish my baby was born sittin' on her mama's knee but you, poor girl are dead and gone and gra** is growing over thee oh i'm not no saint, no i never shall be 'till the sweet apple grows on a sour apple tree
still i hope that the day will come when you and i will walk as one i wish i wish my baby was born sittin' on her papa's knee but you poor girl are dead and gone and gra** growing over thee